


honey, honey

by heyfrenchfreudiana



Category: Captain America (Movies), Green Card - Fandom, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fake Marriage, Green Card AU, Horribly Illegal Choices, Immigration & Emigration, Listen do I have to tag eventual smut really, Love Triangles, Minor Bucky Barnes/Sam Wilson, Mutual Pining, Out of Character, Romanogers Smut Week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-22 16:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7446712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/pseuds/heyfrenchfreudiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A sham marriage is one that is entered into in order to get around the U.S. immigration laws. For a marriage to be valid under the law, it is not enough that the couple had a real marriage ceremony and got all the right governmental stamps on their marriage certificate. They have to intend to live in a real marital relationship, namely to establish a life together, following the marriage ceremony -- and prove their intention through their actions. If the couple doesn’t intend to establish a life together, their marriage is a sham.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Uno

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sleepygrimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepygrimm/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Follow Every Highway](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808048) by [gallifreyburning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning). 



> This fic was born out of inspiration from [this photoset](http://sleepygrimm.tumblr.com/post/144724440155/dedicated-to-heyfrenchfreudianathat-could-have) (gifted to sleepygrimm once I figure out how to add her). It's also definitely inspired by both "Green Card", the movie (which is on youtube and you need to watch it) and the fic "Follow Every Highway" by Gallifreyburning (An amazing amazing Jupiter Ascending fic which you also should read. 
> 
> also, I have some experience with U.S. immigration personally and professionally but not nearly enough to get all the rules right; my sincerest apologies for anything that is wrong. a significant amount of this is me bullshitting.

Natasha Romanoff wore sneakers on her wedding day.

She thought, as she stood on the steps of City Hall, that she was probably inviting bad luck. She’d meant to throw some flats into her bag, had looked in her closet for the exact pair. Some teal Coach brand flats she’d purchased at TJ Maxx a few months earlier because they felt classy and professional, even if pushing the normal budget she allowed herself for things like shoes. But then she was running late for and honestly, it was a miracle she’d remembered the white sundress that she’d found stuffed in her bottom drawer anyway.

Bucky stood at the bottom of the steps, hands in pockets but brow furrowed when she’d run up, and she knew that look. She was late for her own wedding and she could tell he was biting back words for it.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, breathless as she pulled her hair out of the bun she usually kept it in. “Got here as fast as I could. Is he here?”

“You look like a ragamuffin, Nat,” Bucky groaned, pulling her elbow as they walked up. “You’re not wearing that are you?”

She looked down at her jeans and hoodie and rolled her eyes. “No, _James_. Where’s the bathroom, I need to change.”

Natasha wasn’t going to wear jeans, no, though she figured she could in theory, and who would even care. It wasn’t like the wedding meant anything, she’d barely even met the guy, wasn’t like she planned on even seeing him outside of the meeting they’d agreed to in a year to sign their divorce papers.

 _Divorce._ The word snagged on her brain and she looked at herself in the mirror as she straightened her dress. She was going to be a divorcee.  A twenty-six year old Russian divorcee, what a fucking cliche. It didn’t mean anything but it also meant everything. She could say she was finger-combing her hair for her sham wedding, for a sham marriage and a divorce easier to do than her taxes, but it was still happening.

“Oh...kay,” she exhaled slowly, her breath shaky. As if her body had finally realized what was going on and that this was actually happening.

“Nat, it’s time,” Bucky called out through the bathroom door, knocking and she nodded to herself before opening the door to see her makeshift wedding party waiting for her on the other side.

There they were and she smiled shyly, tucking her hair behind one ear. Bucky, who’d helped her organize this entire thing. Bucky, who had worked with her for the past nine months and was there when she opened the letter that said her student visa had been rejected, that her status as an immigrant was void. He’d handed her kleenex and brought out the good vodka while she mourned the life she’d built and the reality that she’d have to go back to Russia, where she hadn’t even been since she was sixteen. And Sam, of course, Bucky’s boyfriend.  He wouldn’t miss this kind of trainwreck for the world, rocking on his heels with a kind of giddy excitement because he _couldn’t believe this kind of thing happened in real life, the kind of things white people do, Jesus Christ._

It was Sam who'd thought of Steve as a solution, bringing his name up like it was a no-brainer. When Natasha had been sniffling into the sleeve of her sweater and Bucky was doing his best to think of a bright side, ( _maybe you can study in Russia? Look at it as an adventure!_ ). Sam had walked up, arms folded and brows furrowed and he just shrugged like they were overthinking the whole problem.

“Just get married to an American,” he’d said. Natasha looked up and laughed, eyes burning from the tears, because her life was not a movie. Getting married required having someone to get married to, after all.

“What about Steve?” Sam said, looking over at Bucky and Natasha watched as the two communicated wordlessly with their eyes, Sam as if to say _James, this is a good idea._ And Bucky saying _Sam, this is a shitty idea._

_“Listen, he was saying just yesterday that he needs financial aid or he’s gonna have to quit school,” Sam argued and Natasha looked between them both with her tongue tied because Sam was convincing Bucky almost more than her._

_"I can’t just get married to…” she hugged her chest._

_“Steve,” Bucky supplied, deep in thought. “Nat, he’s my best friend, we’ve known each other since Kindergarten…”_

_“And he can’t pay his bills so he needs a wife?” she raised an eyebrow and Sam snorted._

_“He’s an artist, Nat. And a U.S. citizen so don’t judge.”_

_“An artist,” she nodded. “Oh sure. I’ll just conveniently marry this random guy you know. INS isn’t going to be suspicious of this at all. Are you guys for real even? Why would he even agree to this?”_

The short answer, according to Bucky, was that Steve was the nicest guy in the world. The kind of guy who gave you the shirt off his back and then some. The kind of guy every mom wished for her daughter. And unfairly gorgeous, he’d added like Nat even cared, because she was not going to even entertain the idea of getting married to some stranger for citizenship, however easy on the eyes he might be.

The longer answer, which Sam supplied, was that Steve was not only an artist but a college student who had spent his own fair share of time moaning on their couch, his own dilemma paying for school.

“Think about it, Nat.” Sam sounded noncommittal but she could see the wheels turning in both of their heads.  It was ridiculous and stupid and if she had been panicking about the letter from INS before, which explained simply that her time was limited, then the idea of breaking the law was enough to give even her a panic attack. Exactly the kind of thing that would lead to her not only being deported but to the arrest of her accomplice for fraud.

She held out until later that night when she was staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep because she’d already started grieving the things she’d have to leave behind- _her furniture, her job, her friends, her life._ At right about the time she wondered if Bucky and Sam would adopt her spider plant, she wondered if just maybe marrying someone for their papers might actually work.

When she texted Bucky at two in the morning, he answered back that he loved her and that she was doing the right thing. He sent her Steve’s information and she called him that morning, pacing throughout her apartment the entire time because she half-expected that Immigration was listening in somehow, that she’d be taken away that very day for even considering this.

“I’d like to talk to you about… something,” she’d said carefully. “A… job. Kind of.”

She tried to imagine what he looked like based on the sound of his voice, on the way he hummed when she suggested they meet for coffee. He seemed kind and polite enough and she chewed on the inside of her cheek listening to him. The bottom line, however nice he was, was that she was going to ask him to break the law for her. A perfect stranger.

Logically, no one is that nice. This is what Natasha repeated to herself over and over as she held her purse to her chest and waited for him outside The Coffee Bean near the college where he allegedly studied. No one is that nice, she told herself when she saw him, jeans and a dark blue sweater and clean cut so that she could admire the sharp lines of his jaw. Steve did look like the kind of guy a mom would love, a thought that took Natasha off guard and filled her with unexpected sadness. Her own parents had died when she was in high school, her reason for coming the states at all, and she thought maybe her mom would have pinched his cheeks and asked him if he was hungry.

Neither here nor there, she decided when she sat across from him, because they were entering a business agreement and nothing more.

“It’s like sharing a cell-phone plan,” she said delicately, ignoring the crease of his brow as he listened to her proposition. “Except that I will pay for everything, of course.”

“Bucky said you needed help but I… this is a lot to take in,” he admitted, meeting her eyes with concern. She felt instantly touched, convinced somehow that in five minutes of knowing him, he was genuine enough to feel real concern for her. “It’s a little more than a cell-phone plan. What if we got caught?”

Natasha nodded and looked away, thinking of the estranged uncles and cousins she vaguely remembered who _might_ be helpful when she re-entered Russia. She had one uncle in the fishing business and she wondered if he might have a place to at least stay. “I appreciate your time, Steve…”

“I didn’t say no,” he said quickly, a reassuring smile on his face. “I get something out of it too, you know.”

Natasha exhaled, understanding that possibly someone really could be that nice because _he_ was that nice.  Though yes, he was getting her name on his FAFSA application, was hopefully getting the extra award money that she hoped was enough to repay him for his kindness.

“Besides. It’s not the first time Bucky has gotten me into breaking the law, won’t be the last,” he shrugged.

And that was how Natasha met her fiance. They agreed  to go ahead with it the following day, something Natasha could do right before work. And the sooner they moved forward with the paperwork and the arrangements, the better and for the first time in the month since the U.S. government had tightened the noose around her neck, Natasha felt a shred of hope. She might actually have some sort of freedom and the possibility that she’d have her INS forms completed, signed, and sent so soon made her giddy.

Of course all of this sounded easy until she was standing in front of him and the boys, wringing her hands because she’d forgotten to bring good shoes for her own goddamn wedding, because she was actually crazy enough to go through with it. Because he was crazy enough to do it for her. She couldn’t put into words how grateful she felt.

“Ready?” Bucky asked and she smiled weakly, looking over at Steve. His lips were pursed and she could see his chest rise and fall betraying heavy breathing as if he might actually be anxious. He had at least tried to look decent, dress slacks and a white button up that made him look like a waiter more than anything. Natasha decided it was sweet and even a little comforting. Even though they didn’t mean anything to each other, even though she had every intention to move forward with her life, totally willing to not see him for another year, she appreciated that he had tried.

They stood in front of the Justice of the Peace, Bucky and Sam behind them, and she hoped the entire thing would be fast and easy, that they looked like a normal couple.

“We should…” he whispered as they waited for the process to begin, startling her out of her thoughts.  Before he finished his sentence, he’d grabbed her hand and squeezed. This somehow made her even more nervous but she picked up the cue. Right, they should at least look half interested in each other.

“Do you, Steven Grant Rogers, take Natasha Alianovna Romanoff to be your lawfully wedded wife,” the Judge, an old white-haired man, asked after reading the definition and legal requirements of marriage out loud. Natasha’s mind started swimming and again she thought of her mother, silently apologizing as though her ghost was right there beside her. Honestly, whether or not her mom had ever believed her daughter might get married one day, marriage had always been something Natasha had assumed she would not do. Marriage required commitment and relationships, two things she was infamously allergic to.

He looked over at her, with these bright blue earnest eyes and said “I do.”

“And do you, Natasha Alianovna Romanoff, take Steven Grant Rogers to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“Fuuuckkk,” she whispered under her breath, because it was now or never, all of her life and the home she’d created for herself in a country that was kicking her out. She glanced over at the judge, convinced he was seconds away from calling her out for lying and breaking the law, but he smiled in a very appropriately grandfatherly way and told her “it happens all the time.”

And then Natasha looked at Steve and he exhaled slowly, as if also understanding that this was a small leap, and for a second she thought he might chicken out, even though he had already done his part, and then she would be stuck without a husband and packing for a plane trip to Moscow. And that possibility freaked her out enough that she stood a bit straighter because no, she was going to do whatever she could to stay and…

“I do,” she said quickly.

“And do you have rings?” the Judge asked and Natasha looked up wide-eyed at Steve, because she’d forgotten all about wedding rings. But Steve signaled with his chin to Bucky, who fumbled through his jacket for a silver jewelry box.

“Right here,” he said, all but tossing her the box like she had even the slightest idea what to do with it. She shook her head and shrugged, inwardly panicking that this would be how they were found out.

Except that they weren’t. The Judge moved forward with the ceremony and  they “exchanged” the rings Steve had brought, thin gold bands that he’d bought at a street vendor’s down in Venice Beach, and then he pronounced them husband and wife by the power vested in him in the State of California, and wished them a happy life together.

“You may now kiss the bride,” he said before sliding their paperwork over and Natasha held her breath, because _oh yes, of course…_

“Um…” Steve swallowed and looked down.

It was awkward and fast and Natasha would be lying if she wasn’t double checking in her periphery to check the judge’s reaction. He put his hands on her arms and she thought anyone watching surely had no doubts by the way they moved around each other that they were perfect strangers, a quick peck on the lips that carried little to no heat and how could it when they were perfect strangers?

“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Rogers. You can take this downstairs to the clerk,” the judge announced and that was that.

“Mazeltov!” Bucky kissed her cheek and she watched as Sam shook Steve’s hand and she had half a mind to punch them both, if only to sooth her nerves. The foursome walked, Natasha side-by-side Steve and the boys behind down to order certificates, two other newlywed couples in the hallway nearby.

Not ten minutes later, they were standing back at the steps and she was shaking Steve’s hand and looking at her phone, the reminder of real life.

“Work,” she said apologetically to her friends more than to Steve, waving at him and thanking him again for his time. “I really appreciate this, Steve. I promise, I’ll send the paperwork your way next July and then be totally out of your hair.”

“Take care, Natasha,” he told her and she turned away before things lingered and got any weirder than necessary.

***

The marriage certificate arrived two weeks later, an unassuming white envelope that she opened quickly and then quickly stashed with the rest of her paperwork, her mind instantly at peace. No red-lettered pieces of paper to tell her that they’d found them out, just a pretty certificate that proved her right to be there. She made a copy for Steve and put it in the mail right before leaving for her shift, the thought of it gone from her mind before she’d even turned her car on.

***

“Is there cheese in this?”

Steve looked up from his menu and shrugged at the girl sitting across from him who was busy fussing per usual at her own menu, her bottom lip in between her teeth. “I’m not sure. Ask?”

Sharon Carter, who was his… something-question-mark… sighed quietly, a finger tapping next to the Southwestern Chicken Salad as though this was going to make the answer appear before looking over his shoulder for the waitress. They’d taken a break from studying for a quick lunch which he hated to see turn into an ordeal, and he tried not to look impatient with her.

“I might just get the soup,” she said slowly and he turned around to look for someone to take their order. They’d just gotten into the groove of a significant report on art history and he really wanted to finish it, would much rather take her to a movie or be hanging out at Bucky and Sam’s than working on school.

“Sounds good, Shar…” he told her, signaling the waitress, who upon catching his eye, tugged on the sleeve of the waitress standing next to her.

The waitress standing next to her.

There was a face he didn’t think he could forget, let alone the red hair, tied neatly into a long braid that went down her back or the way she smiled, making his heart stop like it’d been hit by lightening.

“Fuuckkkk…” he whispered, feeling his throat close up, his eyes darting back to Sharon’s.

“What? What happened?” she furrowed her brow and followed his gaze.

He panicked. The words _deny, deny, deny_ hit his brain and he shook his head. “Nothing. Just remembering a bill I need to pay.”

Sharon shrugged and then smiled her own brilliant smile as their waitress appeared.

“Hello, my name is Natasha. What can I get for you guys today?”

She said her speech so naturally and Steve figured that at first she didn’t recognize him, not until she looked his way and raised an eyebrow, one shoulder dropping quickly. And then he knew she did, that she was reliving the morning only a month and a half earlier when she’d stood beside him and married him.

“I just have a question about this salad,” Sharon started to say, thankfully oblivious. “And whether or not it has cheese. I’m trying to cut out dairy and gluten.”

“Cheddar. And ranch dressing, but I can have both of those things cut out or put on the side,” Natasha nodded, stepping closer as if there was no issue in the world with seeing her husband. Sharon wrinkled her nose and sighed, ordering the soup.

“Just a burger,” Steve said, hoping she didn’t hear the nerves in his voice. He handed her the menu and she looked down at it, her mouth opened as if she was trying to think of what to say. But then she nodded and held the menu close, turning and disappearing back into the kitchen.

“What a weird girl,” Sharon announced, rolling her eyes and digging her phone out of her purse. Steve hummed, not sure how to even answer that and trying his damndest not to look for her because then he’d only be making things obvious and uncomfortable.

Natasha didn’t come back, didn’t bring their food out or drop off their check and the possibility that he or heaven forbid Sharon, had somehow offended her made his stomach drop. When he excused himself to go to the restroom, he pulled a different waitress aside to ask for her.

“She took her break,” the other waitress shrugged, adjusting her glasses. “But aren’t you a tall drink of water, I will be sure to tell her you were lookin’ for her.”

“No. Nevermind.” They weren’t anything and the last thing she needed was for him to interfere in her life.  He tried to put her out of his mind and made a mental note not to revisit this restaurant. There were literally hundreds more in the Valley anyway.

He was successful until that afternoon, when he’d returned to the quiet of his apartment and his thoughts. Part of him had been okay with never seeing her again, with filing away the experience as this quirky thing he’d done for Bucky in the long list of things he’d done because Bucky was his best friend and that’s what friends are for. She’d called him, some random girl who’d gotten his number from Bucky and Sam, and at first he thought he was being pranked. Even when he’d agreed to meet her, he’d expected to see them, laughing at how gullible and naive he was.

He’d told her, when he’d agreed, that it wasn’t the first time he’d done something crazy or illegal for Bucky, which was one hundred percent true. They’d gotten into their fair share of trouble and sewed enough oats to feed a village before leaving for the military. Steve liked to think this calmed them both down, though perhaps in different ways. Steve went back to school, recognizing that life was short and he had to move if he wanted it all to mean something. And Bucky in settling down with Sam, who _got_ him and cherished him and didn't put up with his shit.

He wasn't sure why he had been brought up as a possible accomplice, except that he really would do anything for Bucky, and it _was_ a funny story he would get to tell one day. “ _Remember that one time you married that girl so she could get papers and you could pay for college?”_

Something he was pretty damn grateful for, as he had nearly given up when he’d gotten his bill. The weight lifted from his shoulders when he had typed in her information and received the award letter that said he didn't have to postpone his dreams. He knew she was getting a lot by marrying him but the almost no-strings arrangement was a win for him too. The no-strings part was appealing, he had to admit, and even tugged on his sense of self-righteousness. He was doing something to fight an unfair system, possibly changing her life as much as his. All he had to do was show up and sign his name on a piece of paper? Steve knew why Bucky had mentioned him- he wouldn’t have been able to sleep at night if he hadn’t agreed, whether or not he benefitted.

When he saw her at the restaurant, he’d only felt better about doing what he’d done for her because she _looked_ good, looked like she had spent the months since working hard and carrying on with her life. Calm and unfazed and fascinating, as fascinating as the day he’d met her or the day he’d married her, as if she was holding onto all the secrets of the world. He’d be lying if he hadn’t secretly hoped she’d be mentioned in conversations with Bucky or if she’d somehow casually appear at Bucky and Sam’s when he was also there because she was so captivating.

He’d be lying if he said this wasn’t one reason he hadn’t moved forward with Sharon, who’d hinted that she was interested but who was also incredibly respectful of his boundaries. Not because he was interested in Natasha, who he didn’t plan on getting to know at all, but how does one go about saying, “I like you but I’m technically married to a stranger I’ve only seen twice?”

Steve hoped she’d wait until it was time to sign the divorce papers.  Until then, she at least appeared content to keep things friendly- dinner and a movie, a kiss here and there but nothing more. In fact, when he heard a knock on his front door, he assumed it was her, dropping by to see about the movie he’d thought to take her to see earlier.

What he never would have expected was the pair of suits outside his door, each holding a briefcase and looking like the very worst kind of solicitors.

“Yes?” he asked, opening the door and thinking they’d probably gotten his place mixed up with someone else’s.

“Steve Rogers? U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Services. I'm Agent Phil Coulson and this is my partner, Agent Maria Hill. We are here to check in on you and your wife?”

***

Natasha slid into her car and sighed, exhausted after her shift and the fact that her mind had been racing on overdrive the entire time after bumping into Steve Rogers. Steve, who she wasn’t supposed to see again, and a pretty blonde who she supposed was probably his girlfriend. Seeing him had unnerved her, possibly because he seemed happy, and she’d talked Darcy into giving her an early break just so she could stand outside, her eyes shut tight and her back against the wall to catch her breath and slow her heart down.

She honestly hoped he was doing as well as he looked and even more honestly hoped she’d never have to see him again, not that she wasn’t grateful for what he’d done for her. Seeing him had felt complicated and awkward and unnecessary, clearly he had a life to live outside of what she knew of him.

And so when she checked her phone and saw that an unknown number had called her five times, the last person she would have anticipated it belonged to was Steve. But when she listened to his voicemail, she heard an urgency that sent chills down her spine and she called him back before she even finished listening to his voicemail.

“Are you alright? How did you get my phone number?” She tried not to sound too eager, figuring that he was calling her to remind her to stay out of his life. “About today…”

“You need to come over,” he interrupted her. “Immigration came to my house today.”

This was when time stopped for Natasha, when she slumped over the steering wheel and groaned because all of her worst fears had come true. Of course INS had visited Steve. A car pulled next to her and she jumped, half expecting it to be the police coming to collect her.

“I told them you were at work but they are gonna come back before six. You should be here.”

“Thank you,” she breathed. “I’ll be right over.”

She didn’t even go home, just drove the thirty minutes through traffic to his apartment complex, located exactly in the part of town she’d figured he’d live in, where the ratio of University parking stickers on cars was high but the complex itself was still quiet and welcoming. He opened the door before she knocked, out of breath as if he’d been running.

“I cleaned up as best as I could,” he explained, opening the door to let her pass. “They said it’s routine, this kind of visit.”

“Routine?” she echoed, her chest aching as she looked around. “What do you mean?”

“Routine. They said they wanted to check on us…” he shrugged and she looked at her phone clock.

“And they will be here in twenty minutes?”

“We should probably talk,” he nodded, looking as overwhelmed as she felt. She glanced at his living room, generally bare except for textbooks on the coffee table and his shoes on the ground by the couch, as if he’d toed them off without thinking.

“Where’s the bedroom,” she asked quickly, ignoring his fluster because they didn’t have time to beat around the bush. He motioned and she followed, looking away from the bed as intentionally as she could so that she could make a beeline for his dressers.

“Hey, you can’t just…” he started to protest as she opened the drawers.

“We’re married, I can,” she argued, her heart pounding. “I need a shirt or a sweater or something. If we’re married and I just got off work, I’m wearing something of yours.”

He scrunched up his face, thinking over what she’d said and she found a heather grey t-shirt, ARMY printed right across the top. “Army? With James?”

He nodded and she started unbuttoning her blouse even as she slipped her shoes off and kicked them under the bed. “Give me a minute to change?”

“Right,” he agreed, moving to the hallway. “I think I should do the talking…”

Natasha rolled her eyes and reached for a stray yellow pencil resting on the dresser, which she used to pin her hair back. “I’m doing the talking.”

“But they know me…”

“You’re too nice, they’ll see right through you,” she called out, diving through her purse for the cheap band she’d tossed in only months before, the one she was surprised she’d held on to at all.

She rushed past him to the kitchenette, opening cupboards for pots. “Do you have pasta? Or rice? I should be cooking something?”

“What?” he shook his head, hands on hips like he was lost and increasingly irritated, unable to follow her logic.

“Steve, wives cook. Come on, pasta or rice?”

“Can’t we not make a big mess in my kitchen, Natasha?” he asked, almost desperately and she allowed herself a second to feel guilty for blowing into his life, for the damage she was causing, except that this was her life on the line and if they found one small reason, one thing out of place, she'd be gone.

“How did we meet?” she asked as she pulled a small pot out, filling it with tap water. “Coffee shop? And do you have your ring still?”

“Bucky and Sam?” he suggested, catching on and she nodded, turning on the stovetop right as someone knocked on the door.

“Christ,” she cursed.

“Hey, Natasha,” he whispered her name and she spun around, almost crashing right into him. “We’ve got this.”

“I know,” she said even if she didn’t truly believe it, appreciating that he was doing his best to remain calm.  He raised his hand to show her his band and she exhaled, sliding to the kitchen stove as he walked to the door so that she could look busy. So that she could move her hands and pace without it looking like she was mentally screaming.

The agents looked minimally intimidating and she surveyed them quickly, gauging that the woman was the bad cop to the man’s good cop. The two agents stood at the doorway, the woman eyeing Natasha suspiciously as she peeked her head around the entry to the kitchen.

“Hi! I’m sorry I missed you earlier!” she said as cheerfully as she could, wringing her hands with an imaginary dishtowel. “Steve said you guys had stopped by!”

“Mrs. Rogers,” the man held out his hand. “Agent Coulson and this is my partner, Agent Hill.”

“We’d like to ask a few questions,” his partner said, tight-lipped and eyes investigating every inch of Steve’s apartment. Natasha followed her gaze, taking the chance to look in some ways for the first time herself. She made a mental note of the little things that were missing, that would be there if she lived there also. Candles, pictures, a knick-knack or two. Her spider plant.

“I hope everything is okay,” she said. “Let me just turn down the stove, I was going to make some spaghetti for dinner.”

“Wonderful!” Agent Coulson praised, sitting down in the kitchen chair Steve had pulled up alongside the sofa.

“I hope so,” Natasha smiled, moving to sit next to Steve. Next to her husband.

“Just a few quick questions and we’ll be on our way,” Agent Hill said, crossing her legs and opening her briefcase for a legal pad. “INS has been extra cautious lately with the rush for immigrants to falsify marriages, especially in Southern California.”

“A sign of the times,” Coulson said sadly before diving right in with the questions. “Mrs. Rogers, you live here? Is this your place of residence?”

“Of course!” she answered, possibly in a shrill voice. She reached, very consciously for Steve’s hand, and he squeezed.

“Where else would she live?” he asked.

“Where did you live before? Before the marriage?” Agent Coulson asked kindly.

“Tarzana,” she explained. “That’s the last place anyway.” She’d bounced around Los Angeles, spending a short time in Santa Monica and West Hollywood with the other Russians she’d met but the rent was insane.

“But you’re from Russia,” Agent Hill said matter-of-factly. “And you were scheduled to return…”

“What’s it like being married to a Russian girl?” Coulson asked Steve. “Do you speak Russian?”

Steve’s face flushed and he looked at Nat for some signal. “I… _da_? A little?”

“I’m teaching him,” Natasha said quickly. “Right, _Lapochka_?”

“Right…”

“It’s probably useful, if you can learn a new language,” Coulson all but gushed, looking admiringly at Steve and Natasha resisted the urge to smirk. “And how did you guys meet?”

“A friend,” Natasha explained quickly.

“Downtown,” Steve added and she smiled to herself because neither of those things were lies.

“It was a flash. Like the movies,” she said, breathing when it looked like Agent Coulson was satisfied with their answers.

“We won’t stay long,” Agent Hill interrupted. “In fact, we should get going right now, I just need to use the bathroom.”

“Great,” Natasha sighed, relieved that it was almost over, until the other woman met her eye.

“Just tell me where it is.”

Natasha looked over at her husband, grinding her teeth because she was sure the door right before his room was a bathroom. He didn’t have one in his bedroom, that she could remember, though a sliver of panic hit her because she hadn’t even thought to check…

“Sure, it’s that way,” she nodded.

“Show me?” Hill raised an eyebrow, obviously calling her bullshit.

Natasha stood and glanced once more at Steve who looked as white as a ghost, before walking back toward the hallway, the INS agent on her heels. The first door she tried was the closet where he kept his vacuum cleaner.

“Just wanted to make sure he put that away,” she lied not that the other woman believed her, her arms folded across her chest. The second door, thankfully, led to the bathroom. To Steve’s very male, very single bathroom. The one very much missing her candles and perfumes and makeup or even a hair tie. Jesus Christ, he didn’t even have a decent bottle of handsoap, just a sliver of something and a ratty brown towel. Agent Hill closed the door and Natasha slapped her forehead because they’d _almost_ made it.

“You need to show up downtown next week for further questions,” Agent Coulson said, grimfaced and handing them both business cards while Agent Hill stood by the door, minutes later, severe after signaling another successful “crackdown” to her partner.

Natasha felt like a criminal. She didn’t even want to look at Steve, shamed because she’d caused a perfect stranger this much trouble. They left without much more to say and weren’t far gone when Steve was pulling his phone out.

“We’ll figure it out, Natasha,” he said calmly. “We’ll find a way.”

***

‘Finding a way’, at least according to Bucky and Sam, who Steve had texted immediately, meant continuing to fake it.

“You’ll be okay. Don’t give up yet,” Bucky said, hugging a stricken and very quiet Natasha before handing her a Corona, which she took gratefully. She was still wearing Steve’s shirt, still padding around his apartment barefoot and he really wasn’t sure what to make of how that made him feel, except that he felt helpless. She seemed nice, was loved by his friends, and it didn’t seem fair that she was leaving.

“It’s hardly extraordinary,” she shrugged. “They do this all the time. In fact, my case is easy. What happens when it’s a family, Steve. Families get torn apart and parents get deported and…”

And then she was quiet again, which made everyone else quiet and he sighed, folding his arms against his chest. It felt like they had all of the pieces and that it should work, if not for the small technicality that they weren’t really in love with each other, that they didn’t even know each other.

“Why don’t you… cram for each other’s lives?” Bucky suggested.

“Faking it?” Sam asked and then nodded and Steve looked at Natasha.

“Yeah, I guess. Nat, it’s easy. Move here and spend the rest of the week together and get to know each other and then on Monday, all you have to do is act. You’ll know all the answers.”

Steve watched as Natasha bit her bottom lip. “This is dangerous. I think it’s better to find a way to get Steve out of trouble, I’ve caused him enough. What if they talk to you? Can I get you guys in trouble too?”

“It’s the best plan we have,” Steve agreed slowly. Not that he was excited about sharing his apartment with her for a week. Not that he was excited about his life being under scrutiny, but he’d agreed to do this with her and was committed to seeing her through it. “We have to at least try.”

She looked doubtful but nodded and he hoped it would be enough, that they would be enough.

“I would love to be a fly on the wall,” Sam said casually, wincing when Bucky punched his arm. 


	2. Dos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yayyy update!

Natasha knocked on the door, her black roller suitcase behind her and her stomach in knots, and her eyes trying casually to survey his surroundings for neighbors. She was, for all intents and purposes, moving in for the rest of the week and so she’d gone home to pick up clothes and toiletries. The less people who saw this move, the better.

When Steve opened the door, she braced herself. Bucky was right, this didn’t have to be hard. They had friends in common, he seemed like a nice enough guy. All they had to do was get to know each other. To be friendly. He smiled politely, the same smile customers gave at work, before stepping aside so she could walk in. She didn’t miss that he looked over her shoulder, as if to make sure no one had seen her walk in, but she displaced her thoughts of self-doubt by opening up the front pocket of her suitcase to pull out his t-shirt.

“I washed it,” she handed Steve the folded bundle. He looked down and then back up at her and she thought maybe he looked surprised. “Steve, thank you again…”

“It's no problem, really,” he protested, motioning for her bag. “Can I take your luggage?”

Natasha let him roll her suitcase to his bedroom, taking the chance to walk over to his bookshelf. Random DVDs, a few textbooks, and a framed picture of a woman holding a toddler that was sliding off her lap. She picked up the frame and studied the pale little boy, studied the mother’s face, frozen in a laugh that only made her more beautiful.

“That’s… private,” she heard Steve say and she looked over her shoulder, putting the frame down quickly.

“She’s your mom?”

“Yes,” he said, voice heavy and she could feel in her gut that this was something that maybe she didn’t need to push, that maybe he could keep to himself.

“Sorry,” she apologized again and he shrugged.

“It’s okay. You should probably know, right? She died. It’s been years…”

Natasha looked at the photo again, this time tender-hearted for the little boy in the picture. The reminder of her own parents was immediate and overwhelming. There were things that were private and the thought that she’d have to share those things just to try to convince immigration, felt unfair and insurmountable

“My parents died when I was a teenager. Car accident. You should probably know.” It felt like a peace offering, telling him so that he didn’t feel like he was the only one giving out secrets.

Steve stood next to her, the room quiet enough that she could hear the hum of the refrigerator and her breath echoing in her ears. He didn’t try to soothe her for her loss and she was thankful. They didn’t have time for sentimentality, not when they had days to learn each other.

“Hungry?” he asked and it broke the tension because she turned and raised an eyebrow, remembering his mini-panic attack when she’d last been in his kitchen.

Seconds later, when she was opening his cupboards and realized that he had three different kinds of instant ramen, a bottle of sriracha, and an old can of pork n’ beans, she wondered if he’d panicked because he didn’t eat as much or because of the government agencies and sham marriages and people invading his life.

“I eat,” he defended. “I just eat out a lot.”

“No,” she shook her head. “How would you survive in an earthquake, Steve? Or a zombie apocalypse?”

He chuckled, a trace of guilt on his face. “It’s usually just me.”

Natasha thought about the girl she’d seen him with and wondered if possibly “just me” meant that they weren’t together. Not that she cared, she reminded herself firmly.

“We can order out tonight only,” she shook her finger. “What kind of fake wife would I be not to make you eat real food though?”

And so they ordered pizza and she learned that he liked Hawaiian. She filed the information away, making sure that he knew that she tolerated Hawaiian but much preferred something with vegetables, just in case he was asked by INS. And while they ate, paper towels as plates, they quizzed each other on different aspects of who they were, much the same way they might if they were on a first date, except that the topic of past relationships had so far been mercifully avoided. Except for the underlying tension of needing to know the answers, instead of the usual first date curiosity, possible deportation and criminal charges hanging in the air around them.

Natasha watched him, studied his face and his hands and the constitution of his body, his shoulders, his arms. She almost wished it was a first date, though she knew that was top-level absurd and even pathetic. He was beautiful and all appearances pointed to kind and every bit the nice guy she would normally never pick out. And he was risking big things for her. She hoped come Monday that she’d be able to slip away from his life, leaving him unscathed.

“What about your coffee?” he asked, in between bites on the sofa. “How do you take it?”

“Actually,” she swallowed. “I’m Russian. I’m required to prefer tea. Sweet. Maybe a spoonful of sugar or two. You?”

He looked thoughtful about her answers, which she secretly loved, as if he was truly interested and not just memorizing for Immigration, but she tried to keep her smile as innocent as possible, tried to remember that this was not a date and that she had no business flirting with him. “Two creams, one sugar, unless I’m studying. And then I take whatever I can get.”

Natasha yawned and stretched her legs out across the floor where she’d been sitting, her brain tired, and he laughed, getting up so that he could bring her a pile of blankets and pillows. “We can get started tomorrow.”

“The sooner, the better,” she nodded. “But I will have to work tomorrow afternoon.”

When he went to his bedroom and shut the door, she sat on the couch and sighed, her eyes on his living room and the lack of decor, as if the idea of needing a woman’s touch was an understatement. Of course they’d seen right through the charade of them pretending to be married.  No trace of her in his life, because she _wasn’t_ part of his life.  None of the pieces of her were there- not her spider plant or some decorative pillows, not the blue matroyska dolls she’d brought from Moscow or her red coffee mug that she used everyday.  No photos of them together, smiling and looking in love. Even a scarf on the back of a chair would have been a nice touch and she scowled at how stupid she’d been to think this would ever work.

Things weren’t perfect when her parents had been alive, it wasn’t like she’d had the perfect childhood. Her father was a taxi driver and her mom stayed at home, sometimes taking on work babysitting for extra money, and things were okay. Sometimes, her parents fought about which bill to pay and which one to delay. And sometimes, like when Laura next door wanted to go to the cinema, she wished that they had more. But she loved her parents enough that when her cousin came to her house to tell her that they’d gotten into an accident, she was sure she’d died with them. That was why she’d left in the first place.

She’d left for the US because it was far. For California, where another cousin lived and had allegedly made a small fortune. Because it was warm, because on TV it looked sunny and maybe like another planet altogether. It was sunny and bright and that was almost like an anesthetic for her, because she found when she got off the plane, that she could breathe again.

If her cousin Ivan, who she barely remembered at all, had found a small fortune, he was spending it on pot and girls and she lasted only a month before she moved on and clawed her way through in order to find her own life. She’d entered on a tourist visa and new how to look older, so she’d slipped through, finding work with places who asked for a photo ID but didn’t care if she couldn’t find her license or her social security card. And then she found a guy who knew a guy who could make realistic looking identification and that was that. Only months ago, she thought she was finally starting to live comfortably, in a way that might make her parents proud.

She fell asleep on Steve Rogers’ couch thinking about her parents and how much she missed them but also how much she didn’t want to go back in time, to a part of her life that wasn’t her life anymore.

***

Steve tiptoed through his living room the following morning and tried not to watch his houseguest sleep, tried not to watch the flutter of her eyelids or the way she held onto the blanket tightly. Instead, he made coffee and rummaged through his junk drawer for a bag of Liptons, something he was grateful he had even though he wasn’t sure how old it was.

He was boiling water when she sat up, bleary-eyed and her hair frizzy, and the sight of it pinged at his heart just so. The truth, when he stood in front of his Keurig and thought about it, was that he found her fascinating. He was fascinated by how she’d gotten herself into the situation of needing a husband and he wanted to know how it had happened, who she was and where she’d come from, not just because of their immigration appointment. She was Russian and her accent was still there, traces of it in her o’s and r’s, but he didn’t even know what part of Russia she was from or exactly how long she’d been in the US. He didn’t know even know how old she was. He didn’t know anything. _Christ._

It was no wonder they’d failed inspection. And he took it personally, as though he’d failed her.  He watched her stretch, her lean body arching like a cat’s as if she didn’t know or didn’t care, and he thought he’d do whatever it took to help her.

His phone chirped in his pocket, a text from Sharon to ask him if he wanted to hang out later, and he sighed, reminded of the world outside of this current crisis.   _Sharon._ Steve slapped his face with his forehead as he thought about how he was going to sidestep around that, his fingers crossed that he could absolutely hide his technical-wife from his kind-of-girlfriend. Knowing he might regret it later, he swiped away the notification that she’d messaged him. It was something he could deal with later.

“I don’t really have… breakfast,” he apologized. “I have some protein bars and an old banana…”

Natasha gave a small laugh and walked up, standing next to him as he boiled the water for her tea. “Tea is enough for now. Maybe we can go to the store? I’ll pay for the groceries.”

Steve handed her a mug and ignored the way his heart leapt when she clutched it with her two delicate hands, eyes closed and a small smile like she’d finally found something of comfort.

“Yeah, I think we should get some things,” he agreed. “Yeah, that’s something a married couple does, I think.”

“Right, I should know what kind of food you like,” she nodded, like this was easy and normal.

Grocery shopping with Natasha, however, was _not_ easy or normal. Steve, who usually went in and out and bought exactly the kinds of things needed for his life- instant ramen, beer, apples and bananas, muscle milk, water, maybe some orange juice or some frozen burritos- did not expect an hour long trip with Natasha. He watched patiently as she went down every aisle, even the _baking_ aisle, comparing brands and reading labels.

“Is this what you usually buy?” he asked as carefully as he could when she was looking at oatmeal, though he was referring to the already filled basket. It looked like she was preparing Thanksgiving dinner with all she’d put inside. She raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Oatmeal is better for you than coffee and protein bars, Steve.”

“I’m not complaining,” Steve said quickly, though the full chicken in front of him was both tantalizing and overwhelming at the same time.

“What kind of wife would let her husband just eat garbage all the time?” she shrugged, daring him to protest.

Steve’s brain stuttered around this statement and the fact that he really wanted her to keep saying it. His _wife_. Who was sweet and quiet and made him dinner. “I don’t even know what kind of vegetable that is though…”

She picked up the bumpy green cactus leaves that were resting against an actual head- not bag- of lettuce. “These are _nopales_ , Steve. I’m making Mexican.”

He’d never in his life heard of someone eating cactus but the idea of Mexican had his mouth watering and he wondered why she hadn’t come into his life sooner.

“You are the best fake-wife,” he groaned, reaching for a box of Lucky Charms to toss into the basket, ignoring her wince when he said it.

“You can’t eat Lucky Charms while I’m with you.” Natasha crossed her arms, looking almost exasperated.

“Have you ever had them? They are the best…” Steve swallowed and grabbed the box quickly, nearly telling her that this was the best cereal to eat after sex. Natasha’s cheeks flushed and it looked like she was going to say something when the sound of someone calling his name interrupted her.

“Steve?”

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath and Natasha crooked up an eyebrow. “Shit, how am I going to explain…”

Before he could ask Natasha to pretend she didn’t know him, the owner of the voice was almost running up to them.

“Steve! What are you doing here?” Sharon asked, rushing to hug him. Steve didn’t miss that her smile changed to a frown as soon as she saw Natasha, still holding a canister of oatmeal and looking equally curious. “Who’s this?”

“Grocery shopping,” Steve said plainly, feeling very much like his life was imploding before his eyes. “And I’m almost done…”

“Who’s this?” Sharon took in a deep breath and he knew she was trying to remain impartial, that she was trying not to pass judgment or look pained.

“I’m his…” Natasha started to speak and damned if he didn’t see a small smile.

“Cousin,” Steve blurted, wincing because even he didn’t believe that lie. “Visiting.”

Sharon nodded slowly, a slow, doubtful “okay” her only response.

“From Russia,” Natasha interrupted, holding out her hand, which Sharon seemed to accept without qualms.

“You look familiar,” Sharon said, peeking into their basket. “Steve, I didn’t know you had a Russian cousin.”

“Our mothers were sisters,” Natasha explained, her smile genuine enough that Steve thought maybe Sharon might believe them.

“And you are here visiting? From Russia, that sounds so cool,” Sharon said and then Steve realized he had a new problem. That Sharon might actually not only believe them but _like_ Natasha. “I should ask you for help picking out the best vodka, I’m working my way through all of the flavored ones…”

The very idea that Sharon and Natasha might talk vodka like friends gave Steve a small panic attack and he cleared his throat, mentally searching for a way out. “Sharon, we should go…”

“Are you coming to the party tonight? At Stark’s?”

Steve shook his head quickly, his mind racing to remember if he’d promised he would go or not. Tony Stark’s parties had the very real tendency to be over the top, loud, and full of bad choices, including the most recent drunk crossing of physical boundaries with Sharon. The last thing he needed while trying to fix things with Natasha was a Stark party.

“Oh, we should!”

He looked over at Natasha as though she was insane, his heart pounding because this was not going to end well. Natasha looked over at him and shrugged. “I think I should meet your friends, don’t you think?”

“Natasha, I _don’t_ think…”

Except that the seeds were already planted and sown, with Sharon already grinning like she’d won something.  Steve’s eyes darted to Natasha’s wedding ring, his heart sinking when he remembered he was still wearing his, and he rushed to stuff his hands in his pockets, hoping Sharon wouldn’t notice and ask questions.

“Yes! I’m sure you’d be bored sitting at home,” Sharon said to Natasha and Steve grabbed the can of oatmeal from Natasha’s hands before things could get any worse.

“Awesome,” Steve tossed the can in the cart and nodded to Natasha, hoping she’d pick up his signals because this was suddenly anything but awesome. “We should go, Natasha has jet lag…”

Sharon gave Natasha a sympathetic look before leaning forward to embrace Steve again. “Maybe your cousin will let you sneak away to my place this weekend?” she whispered in his ear and his eyes darted to Natasha, who looked like this was the most fascinating thing she’d ever experienced.

“We’ll see you later,” she said, nudging the cart forward slightly and before Steve could tell Sharon that he was too busy being fake married to go to her house for a hook-up.

This satisfied Sharon, who waved and moved her own cart. To Steve, she wasn’t gone fast enough.

“Natasha, no,” he sighed, even though he knew when she smiled that he just might do anything she wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sharon is so fucking OOC here, I know this. I know this.


	3. Tres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is very short but absolutely born out of the rough day for shipping my otp that today was for me. hence the triangle. and the horribly ooc'ness of everyone. bah. bahhhh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my soundtrack whilst writing this today was "Blood in the Cut" by K Flay bc I'm addicted to that song rn as well as "Amor Del Bueno" and "Asi es la Vida" by Reyli Barba/Elefante.

“Who is she?”

Natasha didn’t want to ask, except that she did. She half-expected to be recognized as that waitress from the other day and she didn’t miss the way the blonde looked at the both of them. Steve was busy blushing and clutching oatmeal and Natasha didn’t think he realized the suspicion in Sharon’s eyes, the way she looked Natasha up and down slowly. And Natasha didn’t think Steve saw the way Sharon looked at Steve. Like she _worshipped_ him.

Steve stopped, standing in the door of his refrigerator with a carton of milk and strawberries in hand, and looked over at her. He looked… uncomfortable, a hiss escaping his clenched teeth. She averted her eyes to the box of sugary cereal he’d thrown in and pretended to read the storyline on the back just to allow them both to save face. He shut the door and shrugged, his expression pained.

“Sharon. She’s… complicated,” he answered and she put the box down so that she could meet his eyes and signal that she was listening. It was strange and she didn’t know whether or not she should even care.  He was allowed to have his own life and his own complications and she hardly doubted he would fuck up her chances to stay in the country if she left him have this secret. He gave this shaky laugh and grabbed the back of his neck and she wished she could take it all back for him. The question and everything before it because she was invading his privacy and he deserved better.

She should have let things drop.

But she didn’t.

“Complicated,” she repeated, crossing her arms. “Does she know this?”

“Yes,” Steve said quickly but he blanched a second later. “I think so?”

“Are you...intimate?” Natasha reached for the ring on her finger. “Don’t answer that. It’s none of my business.”

Steve walked over to where she was standing, something that took her off-guard, and she hoped he didn’t hear that sharp inhale when he reached past her, nearly boxing her into the counter so that he could reach the tub of ice cream melting behind her. “Kind of.”

“I’m pretty sure there is no ‘kind of’ in sex, Steve,” she said, closing her eyes so she wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t look at his blue eyes or the little freckles on his chin and throat or the line of his clavicle and curious loopy script peeking from that shirt and begging to be sucked.  

“It’s one of those things. We have this history. And I don’t want things to…” he stopped and looked down at her and she shivered, biting down on her lower lip because it had been a good while since she’d been kissed and his pink lips looked damned kissable. Her rational mind reminded her in big capital letters that kissing her fake husband was a horrible idea, that they didn’t know each other and she would be doing the opposite of fading in and out quietly if she kissed him, least of all because if she started, she wouldn’t be the one to stop.

“My friend Darcy has a word for guys like you.” She could feel his breath on her lips, could look up and see the way his blue eyes got darker. He raised his eyebrows but she saw the small smile, the one that she knew he’d probably given to Sharon too.

“A good word?” he asked and she passed off her own smug look, the one that said that just because she was an immigrant, he couldn’t assume she was stupid.

“Fuckboy,” she said as clearly as she could, feeling bold and knowing Darcy would high five her if she was there. “She’d say you are a classic fuckboy.”

He took a step back, face flushed with guilt as much as desire, and looked down at the ice cream.

“I deserve that,” he admitted, turning around to finish putting things away.

The space was generous to Natasha, who caught her breath and used the common sense that was returning to her brain in order to reach for the bag on the floor that held various non-perishables. It wasn’t like she could judge him, after all. Wasn’t as if she’d never seen her fair share of complicated.

“We don’t have to go to this,” he added and she smiled to herself. He sounded sincere and yet she couldn’t decipher whether or not he was asking to stay so she wouldn’t talk to the complication or if he was saying it because he didn’t want her to enter into his life. She didn’t belong there anyway, couldn’t say she disagreed even if she logically knew she’d be asked about his friends.

“I can stay,” she offered, opening a cupboard to find a set of barely used pans. “You’ll be expected though.”

He stood quietly behind her and sighed. “It’s fine. I just don’t want you to feel like I don’t take our studying and time together seriously.”

Touched, Natasha laughed and looked over her shoulder, as she started looking for his silverware.

Steve opened a drawer beside her and she nodded her thanks, reaching for some spoons. “In the meantime, Mexican? And studying. We have work to do.”

Work. Studying. More quizzing but now past the first-date “what kind of pizza do you eat?” questions.  Natasha handed him a bunch of green onion and a cutting board and took her place at the table, a dark green avocado in one hand. They had to know each other inside and out in order to properly face the authorities on Monday morning. Learning his kitchen and how he was in his kitchen was a good first step.

“Please say this is for guacamole,” he sighed, sliding down into a chair and the table and she winked, pressing the knife in and pulling the two halves apart.

“Tell me what your tattoos are about,” she said in response, slamming the blade into the seed and yanking it out.

Steve looked down at his shoulder, at the one that she’d only seen peeking out. “Which ones?”

Natasha grabbed a spoon and started digging out the avocado, her lip again between her teeth because her cheeks burned. She wasn’t sure she had a type. At one point, she supposed, her type was “anything with a pulse." Those days when she was fresh off the boat, when she missed her parents and the way things used to be,  when she was touch-starved and needy and didn’t find the problem in kissing Luanne or Louis against the door of a bathroom stall in a club on Friday, her hand underneath a skirt or the button to someone’s jeans and her body shaking.  Her fair share of complicated, indeed.

The older she got and the more settled, the more she fell for qualities. Good, smart, kind. The more she built fences and walls and told herself she was better off alone because nice didn’t exist.  

Steve had these qualities in spades, messy inability to communicate with Sharon aside, as well as the size kink she pretended she didn’t have. He looked like he’d get on his knees for her but also like he could hold her against the wall and fuck her blind, those hands never letting her go and supporting her in a way she wished she didn’t need. She’d only counted two tattoos and they were the cherry on top of the sundae that she was supposed to be indifferent too and have zero interest in, and he was asking her which ones like he had even more.

“All… all of them,” she said, steadying her voice. “I should know all of them.”

Steve hummed and started chopping the green onion, root to tip, and she for a second worried that these were another thing he would rather keep private. “They aren’t a big deal. Just some things I picked up when I was younger.”

“Military?” she asked gently. He lifted the sleeve, showing off more loopy script.

“When I joined, I didn't expect to feel like I had found actual family. It was nice, you know, after my mom died.”

She leaned forward and squinted her eyes so she could read out the word. “Loyalty.”

“Means I would do anything for people I love.” His fingers glossed over his bicep. Natasha thought of Bucky and how easily Steve had agreed to actually marrying a stranger, if only to help out a friend. She supposed she understood the sentiment, even if she didn't believe she was as good at the actual word.

“What else?” she nodded her chin, eyes flitting to his collar.  He peeled the shirt back and looked down, almost as if he’d forgotten it was there.

“I got it after I came home. After I…” his brow furrowed and Natasha felt the emotion behind this one like a punch to her gut. She put her spoon down and pushed her chair back.

“Show me,” she ordered, even though she knew it was a locked door she didn’t have to right to ask opened. Steve flushed again but he stood up and unbuttoned the top button.

“I could just tell you what it says, Natasha.” He sounded almost embarrassed and she rolled her eyes.

“Come on, Steve. It’s not like I’ve never seen a man’s chest before,” she said, getting on her own feet to get a closer look. That was enough to change the frown on his face to something more playful and when he squinted, she caught the small smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he added and she bit her lip because apparently in addition to the size kink, him saying 'ma'am' was something that  made her suddenly ache. She hated herself for it.

She’d seen her fair share, as mentioned. Steve Rogers put them all to shame. From the second she saw skin, she knew she was in trouble. Not just the beautiful letters near his shoulders but the rosary on the other arm, wrapped around a cross and tailing around a bicep, dark blue and faded more than the others.  They were art. They were stories to be told and she knew at the sight, she was entering dangerous territory. Tattoos. Tattoos were already something to make her weak-kneed but tattoos on smooth skin that was alive and so beautiful...

 _Steve._  Steve who was complicated but also Steve who had stood next to her in a crowded courthouse, who was wearing a wedding ring because of her, was beautiful. Her fingertips twitched and she wished she could touch as she counted every ab or the curves of his pecs and the warmth of his skin. And then she did reach up, so that she could almost but not quite touch the letters. Steve inhaled and grabbed her wrist and for the second time in not long at all, she was close enough to know that they were in the middle of a catastrophe.

“I went in right after my mom died and _Christ_ , I wasn’t even old enough to buy myself a beer. And when I got out, I was so tired,” he admitted, his thumb running along her pulse. “I got this one after I’d spent some time thinking about it. About the ones who gave everything for the little I still hold onto.”

“Religious?” she asked, her voice weak. She didn’t know if they were ready to trade battle stories just yet, if she was ready for him to tell her what he meant.  Steve’s eyes flashed grief. Something mournful and regretful.  He grunted, his grip still tight around her.   _When you saw only one set of footprints, I was the one that carried you._  A poem she knew of only vaguely and she felt sad that it might have so much meaning for him.

“Depends on the day.” His voice was dark and when she looked up, his eyes were on hers as if daring her to do something.  

“Me too,” she shrugged, because her faith in a higher power had been on shaky ground since she was a girl. She let her eyes sweep down to his belt, to the lines that started his hips, to the hair along his navel because _Lord if that didn’t keep going._ She cursed her own life choices and when her fingertips finally did touch skin, he gave a shaky laugh and she realized she’d moaned out loud.

“I was thinking,” she said carefully, moving so that he was close enough to grab her hips and close enough that if he pushed her against the table, she would consider everything in her life finally full of purpose and meaning. His eyes closed and she sighed at the long eyelashes and the way he was panting, his breath in gasps that told her he’d do it if she asked. “I was thinking we should...know…”

“I should kiss you,” he interrupted, voice so thick, and she licked her lips.

“We _are_ married.”

“You think this’ll come up on Monday?” he slid one hand to her face so that he could cup her cheek. Natasha leaned into his hand and shook her head.

“It wouldn’t hurt to cower the bases,” she all but slurred and he laughed, brushing a thumb over her lips.

“To ‘cover’ them? The bases, you mean.” Natasha lifted one shoulder and gave him her best and slyest smile, one she hadn’t used in so long, because she had zero interest in idioms when he was close enough to make her feel so small, so sexy, so wanted. She pulled him close and could very nearly taste him, the clear sound of someone knocking on the front door the only thing cutting through the dense fog of poor judgment and mistakes.

“Oh,” she whispered, in sync with his low curses. He pulled back and looked to the door and she felt breathless for a new reason. The door could mean the Agents had returned, could mean INS had finally decided to take action and that she’d be on a one-way ticket back to Moscow, could mean that she’d fucked up not only her life but Steve’s….

“Natasha, breathe,” he moved his hands to her shoulders and she wanted to be held or to hide but he looked calm and so she shut her eyes and surrendered.

“Company?” she asked and he said no but reached for his shirt anyway, those moments killed and long gone. “Should I… answer?”

Steve went to the tiny kitchen window and peeked out. “No, it could be a neighbor. Let me get it.”

“It could be,”  she agreed quietly, looking back at the table and their incomplete guacamole. Steve brushed past her and she picked up the bowl of avocado so that she could continue mashing, her nerves on fire, her mind melting because they’d almost crossed some serious lines and all she could think was that if INS was there to take her, she’d missed the chance to kiss him. She couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

The thump after the door opened had her rushing to the entryway and she sighed when she realized the reality behind their interruption was not much better than a visit from two field agents. Sharon, fists of Steve’s shirt in her hands and his back against the wall, her tongue in his throat. Steve, for his part, had his hands in the air and when he heard Natasha, she watched his eyes move in her direction, a muffled Natasha escaping in order to announce her arrival.

“Jesus, Sharon,” he cursed, fingers on his lips when she pushed back for air and looked over at their witness, her face smug and her mouth red.

“Natasha, right?” Sharon grinned and turned toward her. “I know we said we would meet up but Steve can be a homebody and I didn’t want him to chicken out. I brought some outfits in case there was anything that you thought you might want to borrow... Tony’s parties are nice, you know.”

“Sharon, they aren’t that nice,” Steve protested and Natasha watched, open-mouthed as Sharon thrust a brown American Eagle bag into her hands. She winked at Natasha and then rolled her eyes playfully at Steve.

“She looks like she just got off the plane, Steve. She will feel so uncomfortable and makeovers really are one of my favorite things.”

The lump in Natasha’s throat burned but she blinked and urged it away. “It’s sweet,” she lied. “Thank you…”

Sharon shrugged and looped an arm around Steve’s waist possessively. “You’re his family, right? So you might as well be my family and I would hate to think I didn’t do my part to make you feel like you fit.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is a bucket list item of mine to edge along the rpf boundary buwhahaa i am very self-pleased.

**Author's Note:**

> it will earn it's place in the smut week category, it will.


End file.
